The Oceanic Princess (Brice Bannon Seacoast Adventure Book 2)

by David DeLee

  When he got closer, McMurphy said to Baker, “Give me a hand.”

  He climbed over the girder. With Baker holding his left hand, McMurphy stepped down the incline formed by a section of wall. He reached his other hand out as the figure, with his head down, concentrating on finding solid foot and handholds climbed closer.

  “Hey, buddy, grab my hand.”

  The guy reached up and slapped his hand into McMurphy’s. He looked up and grinned. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Skyjack.”

  Brice Bannon’s soot-smudged face was a welcome sight. McMurphy returned the smile with one even bigger. “Of all the cruise ships in all the world,” he quipped, hauling his friend up to safety for the second time in as many days. Then he scooped him up in a giant bear hug. “Brice! Jesus! You’re okay.”

  Bannon winced. “Arm.”

  McMurphy put him down and leaned back, noticing his bloody shirt. “You’ve been shot.”

  “It’s only a flesh wound.”

  “You always say that. You and Blades. You know, that’s it. I’m putting that on both your tombstones. ‘It’s only a flesh wound.’” McMurphy looked around. To Baker, he said, “Where’s that nurse?”

  At McMurphy’s suggestion, the ad hoc rescue team had split up and moved to the far corners of the room calling out for survivors.

  Baker said, “He’s over—”

  Bannon held up a hand. “Don’t sweat it. I’m fine.” He wished that was the case. The bullet remained lodged in his shoulder. He felt it every time he moved his arm, which he couldn’t do much of, causing who knew how much damage as it rattled around in there. He looked around. “Besides, you all have your hands full.”

  “Zayd?” McMurphy asked.

  “Dead.”

  “Faaid?”

  “Deader.”

  “The railgun?”

  “At the bottom of the ocean. With Faaid.”

  McMurphy gave him a look. “You’re sure about that, this time?”

  He said, “It’s over except for one more thing.”

  “Brice, what?”

  “The other woman, Bridget Barnes, she got away from me. She’s on the ship somewhere. Speaking of Blades, where is she?”

  McMurphy shrugged. “When the missile struck, we came down here to help. We got separated. Last I saw her, she was up top helping passengers get to the promenade where they’re checking them off and loading lifeboats.” He patted Bannon’s good shoulder. “Come on. I’ll help you find her. Find them.”

  “Over here!” a crewman shouted. “We found one.”

  The voice had come from the space behind what looked like a reception counter. Teak and beautiful if one could get past the deep gouges carved through its face and top.

  “No,” Bannon said to McMurphy. “You stay here. Help these people. I’ll get Tara and deal with Bridget Barnes.”

  McMurphy didn’t argue. He moved toward where the rescuers were busily clearing debris, digging deeper into the smoldering wreckage, and removing large sections of plaster and wallboards off the leg of a balding man in his fifties. He grabbed a large section of buckled bulkhead and cleared it away, as Baker and the others pulled the man free and the nurse set down beside him and popped open the first aid kit.

  When McMurphy looked back, Bannon was gone. He silently wished his friend good luck and said, “Okay. Where to next.”

  -----

  TARA RACED DOWN A badly damaged, previously opulent winding staircase to the lower decks. She pushed through passengers urging her to go back up. She ignored them.

  Finding Bridget Barnes was the only thing on her mind.

  As she moved further aft, she ran into a small group of passengers congregated near a raised, tiled hot tub. Large palm trees stood at attention over the half empty tub. Its contents spilled out on the floor. The crowd stood looking and pointing out to sea. A murmur of speculation buzzed among them.

  They’d spotted several ships on the horizon.

  A few hoped they were ships coming to rescue them. Others voiced concern the ships represented more trouble.

  “They’re Coast Guard ships,” Tara assured them. “They’re coming to help.”

  “Why should we believe you? We don’t know who you are,” a large man with a beer gut said. “You could be one of them.”

  Next to him stood a woman, equally overweight, her face sweaty and smeared with mascara and tears. With them was a young boy around seven. He wore a New York Yankees jersey.

  “I’m not. I’m helping with the rescue.”

  “You look like you could be a terrorist,” the man said.

  “Because I’m dark-skinned? Because I’m from the Middle East?” Tara stepped close to him and fisted her hand. “You know what they call that?”

  Before the man replied, his wife hit him in the shoulder. “Ignorant. That’s was they call that. Shut up, Harold.” To Tara, the woman said, “What should we do?”

  “Go to the forward upper deck promenade. There the crew will check you in. They’re making sure everyone is accounted for.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  As the crowd started to break up and move toward the stairwell Tara had descended, she called out. “I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A woman. She’s got red hair, really pale skin, a couple of large scratches on her cheek. If anyone’s seen her, please let me know. It’s important.”

  A few people shook their heads. A couple looked to each other as if checking to see, but no one spoke up.

  Tara asked the racist and his wife. “What about you two? Have you seen her?”

  The man shook his head. “We need to go.” He tugged at his wife’s arm. She clutched her son’s hand and pulled him along. The man looked further aft. “Whoever she is, if she was back there when this happened, forget her and get yourself off this death trap of a ship.”

  Tara watched them join the line of people moving up the staircase. She saw the boy’s jersey was 99. She called out. “Hey, Yankee.”

  The boy turned around.

  She smiled. “I live in Boston but I think the Yankees are pretty cool, too.”

  When they reached the top of the steps he looked down at her and waved.

  Tara waved back, then she turned and looked out at the small fleet of Coast Guard ships. They would be here soon. That was good.

  But first, time to think like a terrorist. If it had been Zayd or Faaid she was after, zealots like that might be determined to finish the job they’d started, which was to sink the Oceanic Princess. She didn’t think that would be the case with Bridget Barnes. She wasn’t a zealot. She had her reasons for working with Faaid and the others, for hating America as much as they did. Tara didn’t know what her reasons were, but she sensed the woman wasn’t prepared to die for them.

  No, she’d come onboard the Princess to escape. The only way to do that would be to hide among the passengers. Blend in and escape on a lifeboat.

  Tara was determined to not let that happen. She returned to the upper deck and headed for the starboard side, making her way toward the promenade where passengers were lined up in a relatively calm and orderly fashion. Crewmembers were checking off names from a passengers list. Others were escorting women and underage passenger to a stairwell that would take them to the lifeboats.

  Tara pushed through the crowd. Twice she saw redheads. Her heart leaped, but neither turned out to be Barnes. Frustrated, she wondered how she’d find a single person among five thousand passengers. She was glancing around again when she heard a commotion near the front of the lines.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. But according to this, your name’s already been checked off the list.”

  “Well, that’s a mistake. I’m right here and I need you to let me on one of those lifeboats,” a woman’s voice said.

  Tara moved toward the arguing voices. As she got closer, moving people out of her way, she saw the woman arguing with the crewman. She wore a colorful scarf over her head and big dark sunglasses.

  �
��If you could just show me some ID,” the crewman said.

  With two lines of people between them, a gust of wind caught the woman’s scarf and nearly tore it from her head. She caught it and kept it at bay, but not before it revealed the woman’s bright red hair and three deep scratches down her cheek.

  Tara pushed a man to the side. He pushed back. “Wait your turn, lady.”

  The commotion caught Bridget’s attention. She turned, saw Tara, and ran.

  “Damn it.” Tara shoved the man back so hard he stumbled and fell, knocking three more people down like bowling pins.

  Tara ran.

  Bridget had a big head start.

  Tara pushed and shoved more passengers aside. In return, she was on the receiving end of some pretty nasty—and deserved—comments. Tara ignored all that and broke through the lines, clearing them in time to see Bridget duck through a door and re-enter the Princess’s interior.

  Tara ran after her, yanked the door open, and plunged into the darkness of a passageway.

  Fifty feet ahead of her, Bridget ran through another door.

  Tara went through it, too, ending up inside a restaurant, large enough to serve two thousand people. Tables and chairs were turned over and had tumbled back and forth in the room before settling into a jumbled, broken mess. Tara navigated through the maze of tables, broken dishes, glassware, and scattered cutlery. Table linens and napkins littered the floor. The smashed china and glassware crunched under her feet as she ran and leaped over overturned tables and chairs, heading for the door closing on the other side of the hall.

  She burst through the door and swept the area with her Beretta she’d pulled from her coveralls’ pocket.

  Rather than running away, Bridget Barnes stood her ground, waiting for Tara to appear. “You’d never stop,” she explained. “Not unless I stop you.”

  “You’ve got it backwards,” Tara said. “I’m the one with the gun.”

  Actually, she had two. The M16 was still strapped to her back as well.

  “You’re just going to shoot me? Payback for me being mean to you.”

  “Being mean? You killed people.”

  “Like you haven’t. Like your people haven’t. I know all about you, Tarakesh Sardana. Go on. Just shoot me then and get it over with.”

  Tara considered the gun in her hand. It was a stupid, rash, impulsive thing to do, and she knew it. Still, she tossed the gun aside and fisted her hands. She needed to do this.

  Bridget did the same. And smiled.

  Tara advanced on terrorist. Trained in several fighting styles, even weak from two days of captivity, a lack of water and food, and bullet wound in her arm, Tara had no reason to believe she couldn’t take Bridget in a straight-up fight.

  She should have re-thought that.

  They charged at each other.

  A street fighter, Bridget fought tough, with a hard-hitting boxing style, dirty and savage. As it turned out, she could take a punch and give one even better.

  Bridget grabbed Tara by the front of her coveralls. She spun her around and slammed her hard into the bulkhead. Tara’s back hit the wall. The blow took her breath away. The M16 strapped diagonally across her back dug painfully into her flesh. Tara screamed out. Bridget threw a punch, but Tara moved her head. Bridget’s fist smacked hard into the bulkhead. She cried out. Tara kneed her between the legs.

  Bridget staggered back.

  Tara charged at her, but Bridget dropped to the floor, planted her foot in Tara’s stomach and rolled, throwing Tara over her and down the passageway. Bridget spun and got up. She pounced on Tara, still on the floor. Bridget rained punches down on Tara’s sides, back, and the back of her head. Tara curled up and covered up, absorbing the blows as best she could until opportunity arrived. She could kick out her left foot.

  Her sandaled foot smashed into Bridget’s knee. She heard bones crack and the knee pop. Bridget cried out in pain. She grabbed her leg and opened herself up. Tara swung a punch that snapped Bridget’s head around and sent a fan of blood flying from her mouth.

  Tired, bloody, and exhausted, Bridget tried to back pedal away from Tara. She got up on her good leg and hobbled a few steps back toward the restaurant. Tara kicked out her feet, caught the escaping woman’s ankles, and tripped her. Bridget fell to the carpeted floor.

  She scrambled away on her hands and knees, cursing every time her injured knee crashed into the floor. Tara was confident she had her, until Bridget reached the tossed-away Beretta.

  Bridget grabbed it and flipped over on to her back.

  Tara had been advancing on the woman, thinking the wounded terrorist could get away. Now she faced her own gun pointed at her.

  With the gun held in both her hands, pointed at Tara between her bent knees, Barnes started to squeeze the trigger.

  Tara unlashed the chain around her waist, her constant companion since the start of her captivity. She swung the chain. The heavy cuff slammed into Bridget’s hands. The metal cut a deep gash in the back of her hand and sent the gun flying out of her hands.

  Tara stepped over her and swung the M16 around from her back in one smooth, practiced move. She pointed the barrel of the weapon at Bridget’s throat. “No more games.”

  “Go ahead. Kill me. You think that finishes it.”

  Tara gave her a grim smile. “It finishes you.”

  “Tara! Don’t!” Bannon appeared at the doorway to the restaurant. He held a hand out to urge her to stop.

  Tara adjusted her grip on the rifle. She’d sworn to kill the woman and she had every intention of carrying out that vow. She’d wanted to do it with her bare hands. But this would do.

  “Do it,” Barnes urged. “But then you’ll never know. Not until it’s too late.”

  “Know what?” Bannon asked. “Faaid said something similar.” He looked at Tara. “We need to know.”

  Tara tightened her jaw. “Lies. A desperate gambit to stay alive.”

  “I thought so, too. He said it wasn’t over. That this, this was a test. Tara, we need to know what he was talking about. We need to be sure.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Barnes said.

  Tara hesitated. The weight of indecision weighed heavy on her. She glared at Bannon. “Oh, come on. You got to kill yours, Brice.”

  “I didn’t realize what he was saying meant anything, not until now. If she knows something important, Tara, she’s the only one left.”

  Barnes held her hands up at Tara, waving then at her. Blood coursed down the back of her injured hand, a river of red running down her arm. “I know things you’ll want to know, Tarakesh. I swear.”

  Tara groaned with anger and frustration. “What things?”

  “Who’s behind this. All of it.”

  “We know who. You and Zayd, with Faaid in charge.”

  Barnes snorted a laugh. “He wished. He was never more than a minion. No. I can give you the real person in charge. You know him, Tara. You both do. I told you. You and I, we’ve got a connection.”

  Bannon stepped closer. “Who?”

  “He calls himself Munaqadh.”

  “Faaid mentioned that name before he died, too,” Bannon said. “What does it mean?”

  “Savior.” To Barnes, she said, “Seriously?”

  “You know him by another name. You know him as Ghaazi Alvi.”

  Tara stepped back and lowered the rifle. The name was like a punch to her stomach. “That’s impossible. You’re lying.” She stepped forward, raising the rifle again. “Tell me you’re lying.”

  “I’m not. Why would I?”

  Tara adjusted her grip on the rifle. “To keep me from killing you.”

  “Tara,” Bannon said.

  Barnes shrugged her shoulders. “It will only delay the inevitable. I’m guilty of terrorist murder. I’m dead sooner or later.”

  “It can’t Ghaazi,” Bannon said. “He’s—”

  Tara looked at him, her eyes wet with tears. “My brother.”

  Barnes said, “And he’s most definitely
not—”

  Tara spun her rifle around and slammed the butt across Barnes’s jaw, knocking her out cold.

  “Shut up. Liar.” Tara dropped the weapon at Bannon’s feet and walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  A FEW HOURS LATER, on the deck of the Oceanic Princess, Bannon, Tara, and McMurphy were reunited. McMurphy had a thick cigar lit in his mouth, happily puffing away, and a Styrofoam cup in his hand. Bannon strongly suspected it contained whiskey.

  Bannon had his arm immobilized in a sling. The ship’s doctor had taken a look at his gunshot wound, patched him, and told him he’d need surgery to get the bullet out. He redressed Tara’s flesh wound, telling her to just keep it clean and take it easy for a few days.

  She hadn’t said much since Bridget Barnes revealed the identity of the mastermind behind the terrorist plot. Bannon had no brothers or sisters. He’d grown up in the system, an orphan subject to a series of foster homes. Some had been good, others not so much. None became a family he would call his own. Close ties like brothers and sisters came to him through the military, not blood relations. He wondered what it would feel like to feel that level of betrayal.

  The three of them were dirty, bloody, disheveled—in a word, they were a mess.

  At their feet Bridget Barnes sat Indian style, her hands secured in handcuffs behind her back.

  The deck was busy with crewmembers and Coast Guard personnel rushing back and forth. Around the crippled cruise ship were a dozen Coast Guard ships and other smaller vessels in the area that had also responded to the distress call the Princess put out early on.

  They’d aborted the launch of any lifeboats. The hole in the hull from the railgun was above the waterline, so they’d secured that section. It was determined the ship could limp back to Boston Harbor under its own power and the watchful eye of several escort Coast Guard ships.

  Captain Herron approached them. “Just wanted to take a minute to thank you all.” He looked at Bannon. “If that nut job had gotten a second shot off, we would’ve been goners. We owe you our lives.”